Grand Theft Auto: Vice City Stories 2
by Ironic Eraser
Summary: After renowned ex-Detective Chris Washington is released from jail on parole being falsely accused of murdering a fellow detective and unfairly tried, he delves into the underworld where he plots his revenge on the whole of the Vice City Police Department
1. Chapter 1

Framed

1981, Vice City

There was no shade, only the unforgiving sun that bore down on the group of people that gathered in front of a sole white warehouse that practically stood in the middle of nowhere. The vultures above circled aimlessly around, feasting on the soon to be dead cadavers with their eyes. Among these soon to be dead cadavers was Detective Chris Washington, an exceptional detective, Vice City's rising sun. He wore his dull grey suit with a black shirt underneath, his sleeves rolled up to his forearm. His fair black hair was slicked back, a noticeable amount of grease kept it back. He squinted behind his navy blue shades, taking a good look at the targets behind the warehouse. A tip from an unknown caller spoke of a coke deal between Los Cabrones and Vice City's Triads, in which Detective Washington specifically, was sent to lead the group. He was far from Vice City, his home, which was not much different from where he was now. The outskirts: no one came here, and yet there was still drug and arm dealings going on.

His partner and best friend, Detective Tony Manata, stood opposite of him, wearing a bright suit, with pink shades, long brown hair combed neatly and tied in a knot so that it wouldn't get in the way of his sight. They both looked at each other, dripping sweat both because of the heat and the anxiety, withdrawing their pistols from their holsters. They then looked behind them, signalling the darkly clad SWAT team and fellow Detective Vince Stevenson, that they were ready to burst in, guns a blazing. They turned and looked at each other again, reassuring themselves. In a few seconds, they kicked the doors down, pointing their guns at the gangs.

"VCPD, DROP THE GUNS AND BLOW ASSHOLES!" Washington cried, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous warehouse. And like many gangs, they answered with bullets. Another day at the job.

Chris dived to a nearby crate, dodging bullets only by inches. He fired blindly, hoping the he would nick some sorry ass motherfucker in the neck. He heard a distant scream: sometimes the day is kind to him. He darted out of hiding, watching as various gang members scurried off to different positions. And then he saw him: Umberto Robina, running away with the bag of coke in his hands. The detective fired expertly, a single shot nicking the mob boss in the leg. He grinned, bolting excitedly towards the prick, grovelling in pain.

"It's all over dickhead," he said, pointing the gun at him. He felt a something hard hit his head. After years of experience, years of flesh wounds, whacks to the head, you would remember WHAT you were being hit with. He felt the butt of a gun.

Washington fell back, vision blurring. He tried to catch a glimpse of the shithead who ruined his perfectly greased hair.

"Tony?" he whimpered.

Another blow to the face. Darkness fell.

Voices, barely audible.

"_Tony you BACKSTABBING BASTARD!"_

"_Just the guy I wanted to see."_

"_Drop the gun Tony."_

"_What, you gonna kill me? You don't got the balls."_

"_Goddammit Tony, I said drop the fucking gun."_

"_You hear me Vincey? You don't got the fucking BALLS you pussy."_

"_DROP THE FUCKING GUN."_

Two shots rang. Something heavy hit the ground.

"_Bastard nicked my arm. I'll show you."_

More shots rang. Chris felt someone turning him around, whipping out cuffs and cuffing his hands together.

"_Sorry friend. Sorry you had to get caught up in all o' this. Truly am."_

Darkness fell. He heard no more.


	2. Prelude to a Vengeance

**Name**_: Christopher Washington_

**Age**_: 40_

**Description**_: Ex-VCPD detective, wife and two children brutally last year. Suspects unknown._

**Crimes**_: Conspired with Cuban drug lord, UMBERTO ROBINA, leader of the gang Los Cabrones, along with the murders of Detective Vince Stevenson and attempted murder of Detective Tony Manata._

**Sentence**_: Six years in prison._

1985

VCPD Police Department

A man exits the Vice City Police Department, his face filled with stitches, a prominent scar running down his left eye; the fucker that did this to him didn't live to see the day. He is being followed quickly by his parole officer, David Molarskii, a rookie cop, who hopes this ex-VCPD detective doesn't screw him up too. He's heard stories of this man, Chris Washington: the things he has done, both heroic and courageous. How in one day, a heroic and courageous man turns to evil, is a question, he thinks, will never be answered. _The asshole's insane_, one of the veteran officers said, _who gives a fuck?_

"Washington!" he calls out.

Chris turns around.

"The police department of Vice City and the judge state," Molarskii recited, "that you are stay in Vice City, Mr. Washington. If you are to venture beyond those boundaries you will be sent back to jail and for a longer sentence. You aren't planning on leaving Vice City, are you?"

Chris smirked, his left eye twitched.

"Who, _me_?"

He laughed.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

_I have some unfinished business to attend to._

Molarskii shot him a suspicious look.

"Do you need a ride some place?" he asked.

Chris looked up, cramming his hands in his pocket: a few bills from 5 years ago.

_Five years._

"I'll get a taxi," he said hoarsely.

He turned around and began walking away. When he was sure Molarskii was back in the building, he turned around, and stared at one of the windows. A wide chestnut desk, a coat hanger with a bright white coat hung on it, one of those huge _computers_, and the great glass door. He squinted and saw the name on the glass door.

ATANAM YNOT .TED

Detective Tony Manata. The most trusted detective in the force. So they say. But Washington, knew better; the man who sold him out, killed a fellow detective, conspired with scum like Robina. Things Washington was charged for. He clenched his fists, wishing he had his firearm with him, so he could put a bullet in the bastard's head from where he stood. He could do it. But no, he would never waste his revenge on a goddamned bullet. It would end with his hands around the bastard's fat neck. His features softened, he calmed down. First he would plan. He would turn everyone he knew against him. Turn the tables. There was no justice in the Vice City Police Department. Only corrupt men who relished the power that they had. Bastards. He would see the whole goddamned police department burn to the ground. Whatever it took. No matter how far he had to sink into the depths of the Vice City underworld. The justice he thought he served was gone. There was only him.

_That bastard._

The bastard walked into his office all smiles, and sat comfortably in his chair.

_Go on, sit, relax. Hell, smoke that fucking cigar you have hidden in your cabinet. It will be your last._


End file.
